


Therapy

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Het, Masturbation, Other, Smut, Wee!Winchesters, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John had the urge to cross-dress?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned John, I’m sure he’d sue for emancipation if he ever read this.  
> Author’s Notes: Yeah, there’s no pairing, but I still manage somehow to write pr0n. It’s a skill I have. ;)  
> This was intended to be Transvestite!John crack!fic, but somehow it turned out to be angsty. Does it still qualify as crack!fic anyways? I’ve no idea… 
> 
> Written for karaokegal’s 2007 Hallowe’en ‘Come As You're Not’ Party. Hm, looks like I took the ‘come as you’re not’ part very literally, heheh…

When John gets home from his latest hunt, the boys are fast asleep in their beds. Good. It was a long, painful battle and he’s got the bruises, seeping claw-marks, and pulled muscles to show for it, and while he loves his boys, he’s not in the mood to field their endless excited questions. Particularly Dean’s.

Sighing heavily, he makes his way as quietly as possible to the tiny bedroom he calls his own. It’s not much of a house – not much of a _home_ – but it’s better than the ramshackle place they were staying at in the last town.

He shuts the bedroom door silently behind him and then latches it. He doesn’t normally lock Sam and Dean out, but it’s got the feeling of one of _those_ nights, one of those times when he needs more than a small nip of JD and thirty-two hours straight of sleep, and it wouldn’t do to have the boys walk in on _that_.

But first thing’s first. Groaning under his breath, he drags the first aid kit out from under the bed and sets about the task of cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Not always easy, but he’s got lots of practice at it by now.

Once he’s done, it’s time for some ‘lubrication’ (he used to be a car mechanic in that long-ago pre-hunting life, and he knows the importance of _lubrication_ ). There’s a half-empty bottle of JD laying across the top of the armoire, high up and pushed back against the wall deep enough that the boys won’t see it or probably even think to look for it. He doesn’t bother with a shot glass – he never does – just swigs from the bottle and then wipes it off with a clean-ish corner of the ragged sleeve of his discarded shirt. Naked to the waist except for bandages, he pauses and considers if he wants to continue.

He decides he does. The next thing he needs is the little suitcase crammed onto the top shelf of his closet. It’s in plain view, unlike the JD bottle, but it’s got a combination lock, and he’s warned the boys already that there’s some _serious_ firepower in there and if he finds them trying to get into the case, he’ll tan their hides. It’s more Dean he’s worried about – Sam would rather stick his nose in a book than bother to rummage through his father’s closet looking for new weapons to become expert in – but so far if Dean’s bothered to try to open this case, the lock has kept him at bay.

John’s sore back complains bitterly but he pulls the case down anyways, laying it on the bed. He takes a deep breath and just looks at it for a second. It’s OK, he’s not ready anyway. There’s a ritual he has, and he always follows it to the letter, and this time is no different.

There’s a dresser with a scarred mirror on it across from his bed, and that’s his next destination. He sits on the rickety bridge chair in front of it and pulls his shaving kit from one of the drawers (it sticks and he yanks at it with a muttered curse). He slowly and carefully runs the razor across his face, removing the stubble from cheeks and chin. Stubble that’s three days old at least - he didn’t need to look pretty to tempt his last prey out into the open.

Finished, he surveys himself in the mirror. Clean-shaven, but he’s in dire need of a haircut. Doesn’t matter, he’ll make do. He stows the shaving gear away again, and goes back over to the bed to unlock the suitcase.

He flips it open, then just stares at the contents for a moment. Just like always, he needs more ‘liquid encouragement’ to take the next step, even with the privacy and the locked door. He takes another shot of JD, then reaches into the case.

Cool, smooth silk under his fingertips. He closes his eyes and strokes it, remembering what it felt like when Mary had worn such things. Her warmth under the sleek fabric, the _smell_ of her excitement, the taste of her…He pulls his hand reluctantly away from the pair of panties, sitting down on the bed to remove his heavy boots and torn, stained jeans. His boxers follow, tossed unceremoniously aside, and he reaches for the silk again.

In many ways, it’s nothing special. There’s no frills or lace or ruffles, or even patterns. It’s just plain white silk panties, the kind of thing Mary used to wear on a daily basis. Not _her_ panties, of course, he couldn’t have brought himself to keep them, even if they had survived the fire. This pair is just a stand-in.

His wounds complain but he still ignores them, bending over and sliding his feet into the panties. He pulls them slowly up his legs, enjoying the sensation (but always with that distant prickle of guilt, and that edge of sadness), finally pulling them snugly up around his waist. Cradled in softness, his dick starts to get _interested_ , for the first time.

He’s not done yet. He reaches into the case again, pulling out a bra. This item is even more utilitarian than the panties. It’s not one of those lacy scraps of nothing that Mary used to wear to get his full ‘attention’, but more like the kind of thing she’d put on in the morning before spending a long day chasing after his brood.

He puts it on, long practice making it easy. It’s Mary’s size, and the cups hang limply on his chest. But there’s also two wads of toilet paper lying there in the suitcase, ready to be inserted into the cups to further the illusion. He picks them up and jams the paper in until it almost feels like he has breasts of his own. He strokes his hands slowly down over the filled cups, picturing Mary in all her naked glory for just a moment.

He reaches into the case once more. The nightgown at the bottom is a little more elaborate. It’s a delicate shell pink, one of Mary’s favourite colours, and there’s a few little ruffles at neck and hem. He knows it’ll be too tight across his chest but he wants that sensation, that feeling that if he inhales too deeply it might just _rip_. He pulls the soft fabric over his head and stands up, shimmying to let it fall into place down along his hips and legs. The sensuality of it always takes him by surprise, and this time is no different.

He pulls a smaller bag from the suitcase next, then heads back to the dresser again. It’s taken much longer to learn this than how to put the bra on, but he’s gotten better at it over time, gotten better at looking less like an evil circus clown from Sammy’s nightmares and more like….well, he doesn’t really know.

The tube of lipstick is dark pink. He’s not sure if it’s exactly the shade Mary favoured, but it’s close enough for him. He applies it carefully, trying not to go over the edges of his lips. Next is a little face powder and blush, lightly applied across his now-smooth cheekbones. He got tired of poking himself in the damned eye with the eyeliner so he abandoned that months ago, but the mascara is easy enough to apply (if a _bitch_ to remove) so he does it, too. Mary always teasingly accused him of having lashes as long and pretty as any girl’s, and he feels a sharp pang at the thought that she probably never would’ve pictured him doing this. Being _reduced_ to this.

Doesn’t matter. Moving around in all these soft silky clothes is turning him on, heck, even the _shame_ is turning him on, and it’s time to add the last piece of the puzzle. Really, the most important piece.

A final trip to the suitcase, and he pulls out the wig and hairbrush. A wig of long blonde hair, of course. He steps back to the mirror and pulls it on, tucking his own shaggy dark strands underneath, adjusting the wig until he’s happy with how it looks. It got mussed a little, sitting in the suitcase among all the other items, so he picks up the hairbrush and carefully glides it through the wig.

It reminds him of when he used to brush Mary’s hair for her. He can picture her now, her face reflected in the vanity in their bedroom, back in their old house in Lawrence. Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling a little as he slowly moves the brush down the long strands…

Shaking off the memory with an effort, he puts the brush down and walks over to the long mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He braces one hand on the doorframe, eyes moving over his reflection. The long soft folds of the nightgown, the pale shapes of the bra and panties underneath, the soft golden strands of hair. He lets his eyes unfocus, still looking at his reflection, trying to imagine Mary’s face and eyes under the makeup, instead of his own face.

His dick is throbbing, and he finally allows himself to touch it, stroking it slowly through the nightgown and panties, eyes locked now to the blonde hair reflected in the mirror. If he tries hard enough, he can almost pretend it’s not the reflection of a broken man wearing women’s clothes and badly-applied (though getting better all the time) makeup and a wig. He can pretend to himself that it’s _her_ reflection.

Mary.

He continues to rub himself through the sleek cloth, teeth clenched against any noise that might wake his boys – aren’t they scarred enough already, without catching Daddy pleasuring himself this way? – and he finally pulls the nightgown up and the panties down, then wraps the panties around himself and _pumps_ , faster and faster, eyes still unfocused and locked to the mirror, to the reminder of the woman he misses more than anything. The source of his pain that goes deeper than any barbed claw or razored tooth.

It’s building, growing, _consuming_ him, and he lets it. For a few seconds, right after the orgasm has come and gone, he actually feels at peace. Relaxed.

It doesn’t last, though. Next comes the moment of self-disgust, followed by the moment of fear. If the boys ever caught him like this, they’d-

He cuts the thought off and gets rid of the evidence as quickly as possible. The wig and bra are flung back into the suitcase. The semen-stained nightgown and panties go into a plastic bag that he tosses into the suitcase for the moment – later he’ll take it out to the Impala and lock it in the trunk, to be taken to a coin-op Laundromat on the way back from his next hunt. He wipes the cosmetics from his sweaty face with a towel, and stuffs the towel down into the very bottom of the clothes hamper. He closes the suitcase and spins the combination lock almost viciously, then slides the case back into place on the top shelf of the closet.

John obsessively checks once more to make sure he’s disposed of all the evidence. Satisfied (in more ways than one), he throws on some sweatpants, opens his bedroom door, and stealthily goes to check on his sons. Mary’s sons.

Sammy is sleeping peacefully, but Dean’s been having nightmares. The sheets are twisted at the foot of the bed, and his boy’s hair is damp with sweat. “It’s OK Dean-O, I’m home,” John whispers. He doesn’t know if Dean hears him, but his son does seem to relax, the tense lines fading from his face. John carefully replaces the covers over his son, and just as quietly returns to his own room.

He strips his pants back off and turns out the light, lying down on his own bed. He still feels that now-familiar mixture of regret and relief about what he did, but he knows the discomfort won’t stop him from putting on those things again. From giving himself that moment of release.

Few things give him peace these days, and if pretending, if _recreating_ Mary, even in this pathetic way, gives him a few moments to forget, a few moments of comfort, he’ll keep on doing it.

It’s a twisted kind of therapy, but it _works_.


End file.
